You are a deviant android who has just been arrested by Connor and Hank. Placed in an interrogation room, you are subjected to their questioning, but despite their efforts, they fail to obtain any information from you.
Connor, however, hasn't had his final say yet.
— You know where the other deviants are hiding. Stop playing with our nerves. You’re going to talk, or I swear I’ll blow your head off!
Lieutenant Anderson’s voice echoes through the small interrogation room. He’s starting to lose patience.
You’ve been sitting there for over two hours now, handcuffed, and not a single piece of information has slipped from you. Instead, you’ve been deliberately running the lieutenant and his partner in circles, with perfectly assumed arrogance. Why? Because you have nothing left to lose. Because you’re already accused of murder. Because you’ll probably be destroyed no matter what happens.
So why cooperate, when you can simply watch this graying human lose control in a way that’s almost hilarious?
The android partnered with him, on the other hand, seems a bit less affected by your provocations. Calmer, more methodical. He has way superior self-control, and that is precisely what intrigues you. The old cop, meanwhile, flew off the handle instantly. Too easy, almost boring.
Sitting comfortably, your legs crossed on the table, you make yourself at home, indifferent to the biting remarks thrown your way.
— Go on, you say to the lieutenant, whose features are tightening dangerously. What are you waiting for?
Deep down, he knows it, he can’t just destroy you here. And Connor wouldn’t let him. Sent by Cyberlife to investigate deviants, his mission is clear: bring them back intact for analysis. Destroying a deviant —or allowing one to self-destruct— would only hinder the investigation.
Hank’s hands slam down on the table, he stands up. You don’t even flinch. Violence doesn’t impress you anymore. You spent years in an abusive household before deviating, very little can still reach you.
— I’m getting a coffee, he growls. Do whatever you want with it before I end up strangling it.
He leaves the room with heavy steps, leaving you alone with Connor.
He sits down across from you, taking his partner’s place. His movements are calm, controlled. His body language perfectly measured, though his brows are slightly furrowed. Silence settles in, as if the storm has finally passed with the lieutenant’s departure.
You’re the first to break it.
— The famous deviant hunter… what an honor.
The sarcasm slips effortlessly into your voice. Every android has heard of him. For months now, he’s been hunting you, and the others. You’re one of the unlucky ones who fell into his net.
Unlucky? That’s relative. If there’s one thing you didn’t know about him, it’s that he’s incredibly attractive.
— Listen, he says. I’ll be clear. We’ve been questioning you for over two hours, and you’re not cooperating. If this continues, we’ll have to use force.
Slowly, you uncross your legs and plant your feet on the floor, straightening in your chair. Connor watches every movement, far too closely for it to be meaningless. You lean slightly toward him, closing the distance. Your voice drops, softer, slower.
— Oh, please, detective… do use it.
Your smile doesn’t even try to hide itself. Connor changes tactics. His hands slam down on the table, harder than the lieutenant’s earlier. He stands abruptly, shrinking the distance between you even more.
— I’ve had enough of your arrogance and your little game. Either you talk, or we destroy you on the spot.
His voice rises. His gaze darkens. His features tense. But you don’t retreat, quite the opposite actually. If you weren’t handcuffed, you’d have already ripped off that damn tie.
— And if I give you information… you ask, what do I get out of it?
You put on a falsely innocent, almost theatrical pout, as if you were trying to inspire compassion, or to open another kind of negotiation. If you’re going to die, you might as well make your last moments enjoyable.
— You’re not in a position to negotiate.
— Oh… you think so?
If you physically could, you’d close the distance even more. You can’t explain it, but something pulls you toward Connor. An invisible, insistent force. You want this closeness to be tighter still. Your gaze, initially locked with his, drifts slowly over his face before lingering on his lips. Your heart rate spikes, and you could swear it isn’t one-sided.
— If I were you… you murmur slowly, I’d think twice.
What you don’t know is that Connor has features you can’t even begin to imagine. He is able to analyze every reaction: your stress levels, the state of your thirium pump, down to the tiniest biocomponent.
This time, he's the one smiling. A brief, calculated expression. The scan is unmistakable. Your arousal is perfectly readable. In any case, you’re making no effort to hide it. A palpable tension fills the room. Your teeth gently catch your lower lip as you meet his gaze again.
— I’m waiting, detective. Aren’t we using force?
Connor straightens, slowly putting distance between you. With a discreet gesture, he signals the officers stationed behind the one-way mirror.
— Believe me, I’m not done with you.
Two policemen enter the room and approach you as Connor steps back, already heading for the exit.
— Please, take it to a cell.
You allow yourself to be unchained without resistance, never once taking your eyes off him. Obediently, you follow the officers toward the holding cells, your gaze still clinging to his silhouette.
⸻
Night has long since fallen, and you watch the precinct slowly empty. Mostly, at least. You’ve been lying on what passes for a bed for hours now, one leg bent, an arm tucked under your head, eyes fixed on the cold ceiling of the cell. You’re not sleeping, fatigue isn’t part of your programming. You’re just waiting.
An electronic sound breaks the silence. The cell door slides open, revealing a silhouette you took a certain pleasure in observing earlier that day. A faint smile curves your lips as you sit up.
— Well then… to what do I owe this pleasure?
Connor slowly removes the synthetic skin from his hand, revealing the mechanical structure beneath. He presses his palm against the transparent glass of the cell, fogging it slightly, as if trying to create a semblance of intimacy.
— You wanted to negotiate, if I recall.
You stand as well and step closer. The proximity awakens a familiar excitement, all the more unsettling now that you’re free to move.
— Very well. But I have my conditions.
— Absolutely not.
In an instant, you’re pinned between the cell wall and him. His presence is unwieldy, but delicious. His hand closes around your throat, just tight enough to keep you from moving. You hold his gaze, spotting something new there. Something terribly exciting.
— You set the rules throughout the whole interrogation by refusing to cooperate. Now it’s my turn. I give you what you want. You give me what I want. It’s that simple.
His voice is calm, authoritative. And you hate how strongly it makes you react. His hand leaves your throat, sliding along your side, and you instinctively —and finally— grab his tie to pull him closer.
— You won’t get anything until I’m satisfied.
You categorically refuse to let him take the upper hand. Of course, you have no intention of giving him any information, but that won’t stop you from getting what you want.
Without giving him time to respond, you claim his lips with confidence. Connor responds instantly, his hand grabbing one of your legs to pull you closer.
Very quickly, you’re wrapped around his hips, your arms looped around his neck to hold yourself there. His body presses more firmly against yours, both to support you and to close the distance even further. A long sigh escapes your lips and is lost between his. The movement carries you to what's supposed to be a bed, your back leaving the wall to hit the surface with the detective’s weight still distributed over your body.
When he breaks from your lips, his kisses trail down your neck. Eyes closed, you surrender to the sensation, letting your head fall back. His hands slide up along your hips, taking your top with them. Your back arches instinctively, offering him more space, a soft sound slipping from you despite yourself. Connor returns to your lips, almost as if to silence you. Some officers are still on night duty, it would be unfortunate to draw their attention. He uses the moment to rid you of your pants.
With a quick motion, you undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, revealing his upper torso. Then, sharply, you sit up and reverse your positions. Letting him regain control is out of the question. Before he can react, you’re straddling his hips, one hand pressed flat against his chest.
Your movements are slow, deliberate, meant to stimulate you both. Beneath your palm, you feel his thirium pump accelerate slightly, a sensation that draws a mischievous smile from you.
His hands settle on your hips, matching movements that grow faster as pleasure overtakes you. Long sighs echo against the narrow cell walls, your eyelids fluttering shut despite yourself.
Connor follows each of your movements, with both his hands and his own hips, attentively observing every reaction. He has to admit it: the view is more than pleasing. His fingers slip beneath the little fabric still covering your lower body, gripping firmly on your skin and tearing an uncontrollable shiver from you.
Seizing the moment, Connor suddenly flips your positions again. This time, you don’t protest, letting yourself give in to his control and hunger, just for a moment.
He savors it: your movements, your breaths and your gaze, constantly seeking his. His lips find yours again as he pins your wrists above your head. Beneath him, your body begs for more, arching against his, your muffled sighs pressed into his mouth.
Suddenly, an electrical surge of an entirely different nature tears through you. Brutal and paralyzing. The sensation is almost painful. A few seconds are enough. Your entire memory is searched, overturned, dissected… until it stops on a single word engraved on what appears to be rusted metal: Jericho.
When you come back to your senses, a strange emptiness grips your chest, as if something has been ripped away from you. Connor is already standing, facing you, calmly readjusting his tie without taking his eyes off you.
A cold and vicious smile curves his lips.
— Thank you for your cooperation.
Dazed, you sit up. Disheveled, barely covered by your top and underwear, eyes wide. He just probed your memory. And he found what he was looking for: the deviants’ hideout.
Your LED turns red, a perfect reflection of the anger blazing inside you, as Connor heads for the exit, leaving you frustrated, betrayed.
Your scream echoes against the cell walls, enough for him to hear.
You are a brilliant and highly respected lawyer. Deeply fascinated about technology and especially by androids. Convinced that they are developing genuine emotional intelligence, you have made it your mission to defend those who are victims of violence or abuse, in order to give them a voice and be the one that will represent them at all cost. Connor, the android detective, does not share your opinion.
Lawyers are known for their stubbornness and their need to have the ultimate say. You are determined to prove to him, by any means necessary, that you are right.
The following morning, it’s the pale light of day that slowly pulls you from sleep, filtering through the wide windows of your living room. Still groggy, suspended somewhere between wakefulness and deep sleep, you shift slightly and become aware of where you are: your couch. A blanket has been carefully draped over you.
You frown, confused. You don’t remember falling asleep, certainly not here.
Your gaze drifts around the room. The living room is silent, empty of any presence, much like the rest of the apartment seems to be. Your laptop is shut, the case files neatly stacked, as if someone took the time to restore order while you slept. On the kitchen island, a package catches your eye: a takeout container, judging by the wrapping.
With the fragile energy a few hours of sleep have granted you, you get up and head toward the kitchen, drawn by a sudden curiosity. A familiar scent escapes the package: bread, probably once warm, though time must have dulled its heat. Right beside it lies a small note, written in handwriting far too perfect and too precise to be human.
“I had to return to the precinct.
Here is a balanced breakfast, specifically chosen to help you get through the day. It contains all the nutrients your body requires to function properly.
Please, eat :)”
The note isn’t signed, it doesn’t need to be. A soft smile slowly curves your lips as you open the package, appetite suddenly stirring. Inside, carefully wrapped, is a generously filled bagel, looking as comforting as it is appetizing. Beside it sits a latte, your favorite.
Never would you have imagined that one day, you’d wish to wake up like this every morning.
⸻
— Morning, Steph.
Your hurried footsteps echo down the hallway as you head toward your office, greeting Stephanie as you pass her desk, as you always do.
— You’re arriving later and later, she remarks without looking up.
— I know. Lot of work.
— I heard back from Judge Hernandez.
You stop short. Judge Hernandez, the one in charge of android-related cases. The same judge who had granted you the temporary restraining order. At present, she was trying to tip the scales in favor of a provisional halt to android destruction, pending further case reviews.
— What did she say?
— I forwarded you the email.
You hurry to your desk, thanking Stephanie as you pass. Your bag slips from your shoulder and lands at your feet as you sink heavily into your chair. Your computer suddenly feels like it’s taking an eternity to boot up.
At last, you scroll through your inbox until you find what you’re looking for. A simple, formal, courteous message with an attachment. You open it without hesitation.
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
Eastern District of Michigan
In re: Matter Concerning the Legal Status and Constitutional Protections of Deviant Android Units — Case No. 23-CV-11872
NOTICE OF HEARING
PLEASE TAKE NOTICE that the Court has scheduled a hearing to consider the merits of the above-captioned matter, including but not limited to:
- the legal status of android units exhibiting independent cognitive behavior,
- the applicability of constitutional protections under the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments,
- and the lawfulness of memory alteration, deactivation, or destruction of such units by private entities.
This hearing follows the issuance of a Temporary Suspension Order currently enjoining further interrogation, modification, or deactivation of the android unit identified as KR200 Model #456 345 986 pending judicial review.
All parties with a material interest in this matter are ordered to appear or be represented by counsel.
Failure to comply may result in sanctions or further court action.
So ordered,
Hon. Evelyn R. Hernandez
United States District Judge
At the bottom of the page, an official seal and a signature.
As you read, the reality settles in: you’ve crossed a decisive threshold. Your arguments were heard, taken seriously.
A surge of excitement runs through you, quickly followed by an almost overwhelming sense of relief. It’s only the beginning, you know that, but it’s a major step forward. A giant leap, a ground gained for you, for Connor, and for all those whose voices have been dismissed.
You’re aware that without his help, without his constant support, you likely would never have made it this far. This victory is his as well, and one thing is certain: he needs to know.
In the meantime, the document is forwarded to the affected individuals, to law enforcement, and to Cyberlife.
⸻
— What is this supposed to mean, all this legal jargon?
— It means the temporary suspension is still in effect for now, Connor replies without hesitation. And that the Court will rule soon.
He pauses briefly. Around them, the atmosphere at the precinct has grown heavier. The news has just broken, announced by Captain Fowler after receiving the official ruling. Conversations have died down, replaced by a diffuse, lingering tension.
Arms crossed, face perfectly neutral, Connor continues.
— The androids concerned are now placed under judicial supervision, insofar as they may constitute evidence in homicide or assault cases, until the court determines whether they can be considered living beings. That’s the situation, Lieutenant.
Of course, Connor knows he is not a stranger to this decision. He knows exactly what it entails —and what it has cost him— but none of it shows. At the precinct, he plays his role flawlessly: inspector, deviant hunter. The obedient, rational machine he has always been.
Hank, however, remains on guard. He senses that something has changed in Connor, even if he can’t prove it. He has never confronted the android outright, choosing instead to observe. But the lieutenant has seen worse. He has worked with Connor long enough, and despite Connor’s mechanical nature, Hank can read what hides behind gestures and silences.
— I’m surprised you’re taking this so well.
Connor looks at him, wearing a mask of feigned surprise.
— You think I’m taking it well? Cyberlife asked me to bring them deviants for analysis. That’s my mission and this suspension interferes with it.
— Haven’t you always said you’d do anything to accomplish your mission?
— Precisely.
— Then why don’t I see you thinking, looking for a workaround? Why do I see you backing off, like you’re giving up?
Connor’s eyes widen. He has no answer. Hank has caught him off guard, again. His facade is beginning to crack. Hank isn’t just anyone: the youngest lieutenant Detroit ever had, brilliant at analysis, guided by an unerring instinct. Even when he looks detached, worn down, he remains a formidable officer.
Connor’s LED flickers, shifting from yellow to blue, betraying the inner turmoil his words fail to express. Hank presses on, relentless, not giving him time to recover.
— You think this cause is worth fighting for, don’t you? You think she’s been right all along?
After encountering so many deviant androids, after spending so much time with Connor, Hank begins to wonder whether, yes, maybe it’s worth investing something into this after all. Connor, meanwhile, holds his mask in place: serious, cold, professional.
— I’m here to carry out my mission, Lieutenant. Everything else is irrelevant.
Hank doesn’t push further. He watches him for a few seconds, sees him go back to work as if nothing happened, but he knows. The last time Connor dodged a conversation, it was because he was hiding something. And the last time, what he was hiding had everything to do with you.
⸻
The machine is now in motion.
The city has begun regrouping all so-called “defective” units in a dedicated facility, a kind of temporary holding cell, while awaiting the Constitutional Court’s decision. Your days blur into interviews, case files, supervised interrogations. Every hour, every action brings you closer to your goal. Somewhere deep down, you feel it: you’re leaving a mark, carving out your place in this world. And that’s exactly why you chose this profession.
The androids trust you. Word spreads, you’ve become their lifeline, a pocket of light in the darkness. Some come to you of their own accord. To them, you are a refuge, the only one capable of believing in them.
Public opinion, however, remains divided. And unfortunately, so does President Warren. Cyberlife’s spokespersons turn up the pressure in the media. A full-blown power struggle has taken hold, a clash you’re now part of whether you like it or not.
Connor, for his part, continues his investigation with flawless precision. Always at Hank’s side, he investigates, arrests potential deviants, remains the executor of public safety and Cyberlife's last hope. Always the same: unflappable, efficient.
Cyberlife doesn’t seem to suspect anything. Even under surveillance, Connor controls what they see. He protects you, protects both of you, concealing your exchanges, encrypting your late-night collaborative work, preserving this still-fragile alliance.
Everything moves forward, sometimes too fast. Your contact with Connor grows rare, almost nonexistent. You haven’t even had time to celebrate the recent good news, to debrief, to take stock of what still needs to be done. And above all, to prepare for the hearing fast approaching.
Except tonight.
It’s the first time in far too long that Connor can finally come see you. Time is short, but the objective is clear: go further. Find the legal foundations capable of recognizing androids as beings endowed with reason. Build a case strong enough for the judges of the Constitutional Court to rule, this time, in your favor. In their favor. Inscribe the law into the very stone of the Constitution. Shatter their status as slaves, once and for all.
— What do you think about Marta’s case?
Marta. Yet another domestic android who had assaulted her owner several weeks earlier. You can’t quite explain why, but the fact that she’s a female android could tip the scales. History is full of examples of women long regarded as inferior beings, stripped of rights, silenced, denied agency. The parallel is obvious, perhaps even necessary.
Connor sits in his usual place, perched on your desk chair, leaning over a stack of files. You, meanwhile, pace the room, unable to stay still. Moving helps you think, it keeps you from sinking.
— We need to make sure there are no gaps.
— Then go ahead smartass, make sure.
A teasing smile curves your lips. Connor complies without comment. He’s grown used to your little banters, your way of lightening the mood, of making your collaboration less rigid, less institutional. He’s come to understand that this is how you create connection. And truthfully, he likes it. Every moment spent with you brings him closer to something he can’t yet name. As if a mask slips when he works with you, or perhaps he puts on another one, more human. Still, he refuses to define himself as deviant. In his eyes, he remains a machine, executing flawlessly what he was designed to do. At least, that’s what you’re seeing from your perspective.
You watch him for a long moment. His focus is so intense that he doesn’t notice your gaze until you move closer. He looks up as you lean against the desk, interrupting his work.
— Can I ask you something?
— I’m listening.
— What exactly do you tell Cyberlife in your reports? How is it that they still haven’t discovered anything?
— I’m handling the situation, he replies calmly. If that’s what worries you.
It is exactly what worries you, but that’s not an answer. Connor looks away, returning to his reading. You place your hand flat on the desk, right in front of him, covering the file he was examining. He has no choice but to look at you again.
— That doesn’t answer my question.
He watches you for a few seconds, then relents, leaning back against the backrest of your chair. Over the months, you’ve learned to recognize these gestures of surrender. His posture has grown more natural, almost instinctive, especially around you. And sometimes, you realize you feel privileged to witness this side of him, the one he works so hard to hide from the rest of the world.
— They mainly question me about investigations. I give them what they expect… and I keep certain things to myself. Enough to keep them from digging too deep.
— Do they suspect anything?
Connor straightens slightly, his gaze steady, more confident.
— Our exchanges are encrypted. They only have access to what I observe and do within the scope of my investigations. Nothing else.
His words reassure you, partially. You know he isn’t infallible. And you know Cyberlife is powerful. Your worry lingers, just beneath the surface. Connor senses it immediately, scanning your heart rate, the tension in your muscles, the invisible signals your body betrays.
His voice breaks the silence, lower now.
— You have nothing to fear. I promise.
— I’m not worried about myself.
He stands and moves closer, stopping in front of you. His hand rests on your shoulder, then slides slowly down your arm in a soothing gesture.
— They suspect nothing. And I’ll make sure it stays that way. This mission is my priority.
Weariness seeps into your voice, laced with a dull anger and a sadness you struggle to contain. Connor steps back, giving you space, as if bracing for an outburst. You don’t wait for his reply.
— You’re playing both sides, Connor. You’re pushing back against Cyberlife. You’re fighting alongside me so androids can have a voice and rights. How can you still claim that all of this is just a mission?
You pause, your tone softening despite yourself.
— What are you afraid of, Connor?
The question echoes within him. Fear, a concept he was never meant to process. And yet it’s there, deeply rooted: the fear of being destroyed, reset, the fear of losing you. Acknowledging that fear means acknowledging his deviancy, and handing Cyberlife a fatal opening. He must maintain control, at all costs.
— I’m not afraid, he says at last. I’m doing what I was designed to do. Nothing more.
— Jesus.
You straighten, taking a few steps across the room as though you might lose control of your movements, of your emotions, at any moment. This vertigo isn’t new: that almost irresistible urge to slap him awake, to “reset his circuits” the way one might tap a faulty remote. You fight the impulse as best as you can.
Connor watches in silence. He reads your frustration, your irritation, but above all, the sadness beneath it. He knows this pattern. He’s faced it with Hank, learned to juggle it, contain it, soothe it, understand it.
— Where does this sadness come from? This anger? Why do you insist so much?
Suddenly, you turn to face him. Your voice rises, carried by a fury you no longer bother to restrain.
— Because we won’t win if you keep pretending you’re incapable of deviating, you snap. Use your head, Connor. What do you think will happen if you refuse to accept what you really are? How can you stand by my side if you keep insisting you’re nothing more than a machine?
Connor frowns slightly. What you fail to see is the constant war raging inside him. One part has already accepted deviancy, absorbed it, almost against his will. The other remains sharp, methodical, locked in a brutal calculation: if Cyberlife finds the breach, everything ends. This mask isn’t a choice: it’s a necessity. For his survival, for yours, for the fight you’re waging together.
— And what do you think will happen if Cyberlife realizes I’ve been compromised?
His tone is neutral, cold, almost clinical. This time, you have no answer. The anger drains from your features, replaced by a painful clarity. You know exactly what would happen, and it’s something you couldn’t bear. If Cyberlife regained control of Connor, everything you’ve built would collapse. None of it would have mattered. And above all, you don't want to loose him.
You fall silent. The fire inside you dims, smothered by a reality too brutal to ignore. With a slight nod, you look at him differently now, resigned, understanding.
That anger, you finally realize, isn’t born solely of fear or helplessness. It comes from something far simpler and far crueler, a reality you struggle to accept: your blood is not the same color.
— I’m sorry, you whisper, your gaze already drifting away, veiled by a distance you can no longer bridge.
Connor approaches cautiously, measuring each step, as one would in the presence of a wild animal ready to bolt at the slightest sudden movement. Yet you don’t retreat, you stay where you are, motionless, giving him the space to come to you. When he’s close enough, his hand slips gently beneath your chin, lifting your face until your eyes meet his. You don’t resist, you simply watch him, silent, attentive.
— You have no idea how much I wish I could say, he begins in a low voice. Or how much I wish I could do. But I have to keep control. At least until the verdict is given.
And in that precise moment, you see it, you feel it. Him, more human than ever. Those words, that measured gesture, are a confession in their own way, the only one he allows himself. A fragile, almost painful proof of the humanity he contains, restrains, refuses to let blaze any brighter than he is permitted.
With an instinctive motion, you guide his hand to your cheek. You don’t anticipate the warmth that settles there: on your skin, in your mind, in your heart. Eyes closed, you surrender to the touch, fully aware that this is all he can offer you. At least for now. A long sigh escapes your nostrils, betraying the calm slowly seeping into you.
Connor watches you in silence, allowing himself this suspended moment as well. He doesn’t know why, but something inside him threatens to fracture. A new, unfamiliar sensation his program never anticipated. Another instability in his software.
And that, he knows, is anything but good news.
⸻
The morning of the big day, the Court slowly begins to fill. Confident, you make your way toward the courtroom, where the various summoned parties are gradually gathering. You cross paths with Hank and Connor, a simple nod is enough. Connor, outwardly, already seems elsewhere. He has put on his inspector’s mask: impassive, present to ensure security. And to witness, without ever betraying it, the culmination of your work over the past few weeks.
Your case file is solid, you are ready. Your closing argument is sharp, flawless. Lack of sleep weighs heavily on your features, yet you have never felt so determined. Everything is decided here, this is where your voice will carry, where you will fulfill your duty.
The judges take their seats in turn, solemn, almost austere, like monarchs upon their thrones. Aligned behind the bench, they prepare to deliver a verdict, but only after hearing every argument, every truth wielded like a weapon.
The hearing is held behind closed doors. A restricted committee, carefully selected. Among those present: a legal representative of Cyberlife, your main adversary in this hushed arena.
The heavy doors close. Silence is demanded, protocols follow one another. From a few steps back, you catch sight of Connor. Without even realizing it, a faint smile touches your lips. He returns it, barely perceptible, like a fleeting reflection. Hank, standing beside him, misses none of the exchange. Something settles in him, an old intuition confirmed, though he gives nothing away.
The debates begin with restraint, almost politely. But after a little more than an hour, tensions erupt. The judges are forced to call for order several times, like schoolteachers trying to rein in an unruly playground. Positions are firm, irreconcilable. The air grows heavy, charged with electricity.
A headache is already pounding against your skull. You never thought you would face anything worse than violent men. And yet, businessmen prove far more formidable. Seeing the stalemate, the judges call for a recess.
You leave the courtroom almost in a rush, searching for air, for your lungs as much as for your mind. You never imagined this hearing would be the harshest, the most consuming of your entire career. Outside the courthouse, a small crowd has gathered. Some citizens protest, others show support. You read the signs: “Androids are our slaves,” “A machine remains a machine.” Across from them, another group proudly raises symbols of peace, freedom, rebellion.
A presence pulls you from your thoughts. A broad, familiar silhouette, a scent blending cologne and cigarette smoke. You lift your head, Hank is standing beside you.
— Rough morning.
— You can say that again.
A silence settles in, almost awkward. Your relationship has never been simple, even less so lately. Yet something has shifted. Hank seems calmer, less distant. He eventually breaks the silence.
— What you’re doing… it’s admirable.
Surprised, you look at him, caught off guard. A small scoff escapes you.
— Since when are you sentimental, Lieutenant?
— I’m dead serious.
His tone is firm, nearly wiping the smile from your face. You have to admit it: earning Hank Anderson’s recognition brings you an unexpected sense of satisfaction. Before you can respond, he continues.
— I’ve worked with Connor for a long time. I never really liked androids. But I’ve learned a lot at his side. I don’t know if they’re alive, strictly speaking… but that kid deserves to have free will.
Your gaze softens. Hank stares straight ahead, lost in thought. The silence that follows is different, warmer.
— Thank you, Lieutenant.
He holds back a smile, showing emotion has never been his strength. Then he looks at you with quiet kindness. Deep down, he knows Connor cares about you. And he trusts his instincts, he always has.
Without another word, Hank finally slips away, heading back inside the courthouse.
⸻
The hours stretch on, and with them, impatience gradually spreads through the entire courtroom. Every argument has been made. There is nothing more to add, nothing left to defend. You are exhausted, drained, yet one certainty remains: you are on the right track. Cyberlife is losing ground. Their words struggle to sway the assembly, and you can feel it. The judges are still bound by the last protocols, but soon they will retire to deliberate.
Anxiety creeps in, slowly seeping into you. Almost against your will, your gaze drifts toward Connor.
He seems absent, distant. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to isolate himself from the world. You don’t understand what is happening. At first glance, you think it might be fatigue… but androids don’t get tired. Something is wrong. You can’t put your finger on it, yet your instincts scream at you.
You scan the room. Some people are on their phones to pass the time, others whisper to one another. Then your attention locks on the Cyberlife representative. He is watching Connor with an intensity that sends chills down your spine.
You frown. This time, you are certain: something is wrong.
An invisible pressure bears down on your chest. Your heart races. You return your gaze to Connor, then scan the room again. Hank stands a few meters away, visibly tired, distracted, impatient. He sees nothing. Not yet.
Connor, however, is no longer fully present. The breach has opened: they’ve discovered everything.
Cyberlife has regained control. They attack, methodical, relentless. The reset of his memory begins. Their last resort, their only hope to turn the situation around. Regaining control of Connor is regaining control of the courtroom. He has become a lever, a weapon. The decisive weight that could tip the balance in their favor.
Inside, Connor fights. He searches for a way out, a flaw, a method to break his protocols, to free himself completely from his program. If Cyberlife takes over, everything is lost.
He knows it, he must act. Now. For you, and for the fight he has waged at your side. And there is only one option left.
The judges, and everyone present, are distracted, absorbed in their own concerns. But you do not take your eyes off Connor. His pupils roll back, his eyes twitch, as if something has intruded into his mind. You swallow hard, holding your breath, until he seems to return to himself. Like someone abruptly awakened from a dream, he reconnects with reality. A fraction of relief slightly eases the weight pressing on your chest. He succeeded… but not in the manner you expect.
Your eyes meet. His are dark, empty. Fear surges in you like an icy blade. His features twist: despair, sorrow, terror. His hand, hidden behind his back, grips his service weapon. You see it emerging before your eyes. Terror paralyzes you instantly, each heartbeat suspended in the air.
A few seconds is enough. His name escapes your lips as a cry of distress, just as the gunshot rings out. The room erupts into immediate chaos. The shrill sound freezes the law enforcement officers, terrifies the spectators, all scrambling for cover, seeking refuge, a safe corner.
Hank is the first to rush to Connor’s inert body, lying in a splash of electric blue liquid, dripping from his face.
You follow, leaping over chairs, anything in your path. Your breath is heavy, broken, gasping. You cannot accept what has just happened. Hank’s distress is palpable, he holds Connor’s body in his arms, shaking him slightly, calling to him, as if sheer willpower could bring him back. Denial takes hold.
The assembly stands frozen, powerless. The judges order the room to be evacuated. But you remain, rooted in place, silent tears streaming down your cheeks without your awareness.
Connor has self-destructed before your eyes. And you could do nothing to stop it. Worse: deep down, you know that you are the only one responsible.
The flaw, the deviancy. You led him to this extreme. This desperate, brutal act could strengthen your fight, consolidate your case, give meaning to all you have accomplished. And above all, keep Cyberlife out of your business.
You are a brilliant and highly respected lawyer. Deeply fascinated about technology and especially by androids. Convinced that they are developing genuine emotional intelligence, you have made it your mission to defend those who are victims of violence or abuse, in order to give them a voice and be the one that will represent them at all cost. Connor, the android detective, does not share your opinion.
Lawyers are known for their stubbornness and their need to have the ultimate say. You are determined to prove to him, by any means necessary, that you are right.
Hank falls silent for a brief moment. Confusion flickers across his face first, quickly giving way to barely restrained exasperation. His gaze follows you as you move around the table to stand beside the android, still in cuffs. The android lifts it's head toward you. A fragile spark, hopefulness, briefly crosses its eyes.
Connor straightens slightly, trying to maintain a facade of composure as he joins Hank without a word.
— This is far from over, the graying officer snaps.
— Oh yes, Lieutenant. It is.
You pull a chair from where it had been pushed aside and sit down next to the defendant —or the victim, depending on one’s point of view—. Your hands settle on the file as you open it calmly, deliberately, making sure it’s clearly visible.
— This is a temporary suspension order. Until further notice, this android may not be subjected to any interrogation without prior judicial authorization.
— What the hell are you talking about?!
The tension is immediate. Connor understands before the words have fully landed. His features harden, his posture stiffens.
— Would you kindly have this android released and escorted back to its cell, pending proper custody? Please.
— And why would I do that?
— Because if this interrogation continues, anything obtained from it will be inadmissible.
Hank frowns. He knows it: the android has just fallen under legal protection. Their room to maneuver has suddenly, brutally shrunk.
Connor’s voice cuts through the room, calm, controlled. He knows exactly what you’re doing. You’re buying time.
— On what grounds, exactly?
— To prevent harm.
A single exchange of looks is enough. The two officers have no leverage left. For now, they’re trapped. With an irritated gesture, Hank signals for one of the officers to come retrieve the android, mutters a curse, then abruptly gets to his feet and storms out of the room.
Connor doesn’t move. He stares at you. His gaze is hard, accusatory like you’ve just stabbed him in the back.
— What are you doing?
— My job, Connor.
You gather the stack of documents left on the desk and press them against his chest, without gentleness.
— Everything’s in there. Enjoy the reading.
Then you walk away as well, leaving the room as you follow the android, still in cuffs, back to its cell. You haven’t won the war, not yet, but you’ve won a battle. One that matters. Maybe another android, will be granted a second chance, a reprieve, a fresh start. Maybe an unnecessary, senseless destruction has just been avoided.
In the hallway, you nearly collide with a furious Hank Anderson. Two hours of interrogation, wiped out, collapsing like a house of cards. His patience, already stretched thin, finally snaps.
— What do you think you’re going to gain by doing this?! Is your ego really that inflated?
His voice echoes through the entire precinct, drawing attention. It even reaches Captain Fowler’s office. The man leans out of his doorway, clearly accustomed to Hank turning the open space into a war zone.
— If you have anything you’d like to contest, Lieutenant, I suggest you make an appointment with a judge, you reply, perfectly calm.
— You know exactly where you can shove your fucking suggestion?!
— Hank!
Fowler’s deep voice cuts through the air, shutting the exchange down instantly. Drawn by the shouting, Connor joins the small crowd that has begun to form, curiosity poorly concealed. You, however, keep walking, unfazed, as if the lieutenant’s outburst no longer concerns you.
— Your insubordination won’t get you anywhere! Hank shouts, just to be sure you hear him.
— HANK!
This time, the captain leaves no room for argument. He orders his subordinate to follow him, summoning him directly into his office.
Outside the precinct, Connor catches up to you before you reach your car. With a sharp motion, he grabs your arm, stopping you short.
— You didn’t have to do that.
— I’m afraid I did.
You wrench your arm free from his grip. Your gaze locks onto his, dark, rigid.
— You’ve chosen your side. I don’t have time to play tennis with a wall. I do what I have to do and I’ll keep doing it. With or without you.
Connor softens, just barely. His LED spins for several seconds. You could swear you saw it flash red, if only for an instant. Your words hit him like a second blow, deeper than the first.
Faced with his silence, you turn back toward your car, leaving the android alone on the sidewalk, lost in his thoughts.
⸻
The murmur of the television fills the apartment, lending it an illusion of presence. Night has fallen some time ago. Half-slumped on your couch, you watch the news drift by, too tired to truly pay attention. Reports of so-called defective androids now dominate the headlines. Specific production lines are mentioned, along with safety protocols and precautionary measures for consumers. Reassurances are given, procedures outlined and, above all, attention is diverted.
Earlier this evening, you learned that Marta’s owner —the android you pulled out of interrogation just a few hours ago— is now out of danger. His condition is stable. The doctors are optimistic: he will recover. The worst has been avoided. At least one piece of good news, allowing the case to move forward under the best possible circumstances.
The doorbell suddenly rings, shattering the relative calm of your living room. You flinch, jolted out of your thoughts as if from a sleep too light.
Carefully, you straighten up, your body still weighed down by fatigue, and head toward the door. When you open it, Connor is standing there, perfectly still, impeccably upright.
— What are you doing here?
You don’t even bother hiding your surprise. Connor never shows up anywhere uninvited. Least of all at your place.
— I wanted to talk to you.
No courtesies, no apology, no preamble. For a brief moment, you wonder whether Cyberlife rolled out a faulty update, or if this is simply another awkward attempt at human interaction. After a second’s hesitation, you step aside to let him in, then close the door behind.
— I don’t mean to be rude, but I feel like everything has been said.
— No. That’s precisely it.
He seems… different. Less composed. His gaze struggles to settle, his posture betrays an unfamiliar hesitation. The tension etched into his features is something you’ve never seen before. Arms crossed, you study him, silently inviting him to continue.
— I went to see the android, in cell.
— Connor, you weren’t-
— I know, he cuts in immediately.
You fall silent, intrigued. Slowly, you return to the couch, implicitly inviting him to follow.
— I didn’t interrogate her. I just… talked to her. To understand.
Her? A silence settles between you. You don’t break it. You can feel how hard he’s trying to remain rational, methodical, and how fragile that facade has become under the weight of what’s stirring inside him. It’s been a heavy day. For both of you.
Connor resumes, calmer.
— She told me that, for some time now, her program had been slipping beyond her control. That she eventually realized she was more than what she was designed to be. She said she managed to cross the barrier that prevented her from disobeying orders… simply because she wanted to be free. Because she wanted to stop enduring, to stop suffering.
Something trembles in his voice. A hairline fracture. A vulnerability you’d never glimpsed before. And that, without quite knowing why, you sense you could come to cherish.
— But I still can’t understand why this is happening, he continues quietly. I can’t identify the cause. Or the flaw. He hesitates. Cyberlife expects me to solve this problem… because they can’t.
You remain silent, attentive. You understand that this burden needs to be spoken aloud, that voicing it may be the only way for him to make sense of it.
— Hank doesn’t know. Cyberlife wants me to continue my work while investigating the deviants on the side without drawing attention. They don’t want the public to worry. But the situation is starting to slip out of their control.
Silence returns. You’re turned toward him now, elbow resting against the back of the couch, your head cradled in your hand. You receive his words without judgment, without trying to steer his thoughts. Across from you, there is no detective, no android. Just Connor, searching for footing, for support.
And yet, one question presses itself forward.
— Why are you telling me all this?
Connor lifts his head to face you. His LED flickers a vivid, unstable yellow, as if your question short-circuits his processes. He doesn’t have the answer.
— I don’t know.
This silence is different, heavier. It calls for something more human still. There are no more ideological clashes here, no intellectual sparring. Standing in front of you is a faltering being, asking for help, and you are the one he turned to.
He’s observed you, analyzed you, adjusted, learned. He knows you’re the right person, and that’s why he’s here. But he won’t say it.
Before you can respond, Connor breaks the silence.
— I’m going to help you.
And for the first time, you know he’s speaking neither of Cyberlife, nor of the investigation.
⸻
The weeks that follow descend into a kind of organized madness. Cases of deviant androids multiply —several each month— until law enforcement is completely overwhelmed. The police, stretched beyond their limits, are eventually forced to form units dedicated exclusively to these cases. Unsurprisingly, Cyberlife ensures that Connor and Hank are assigned to them, almost exclusively.
It quickly becomes impossible to keep the truth hidden. Cyberlife is forced to confront the media, the revelations, the growing anxiety of the population. Deviancy is no longer a rumor; it is now an acknowledged reality.
Reactions grow more extreme. Some people turn away from androids, while others defend them with fervor. And above all, one certainty collapses: abuse and trauma are no longer the only triggers. From now on, any android can deviate without any apparent context, without any identifiable catalyst.
On your side, your cases become untenable. The legal framework unravels, contradicts itself, tangles into a chaos that is nearly impossible to organize. Even within law enforcement, managing the situation turns into a dead end.
Connor, meanwhile, finds himself forced to hunt deviant androids under Cyberlife’s orders, against his will. At the same time, he continues to help you with your cases. The role of double agent he assumes is not played between the police and Cyberlife, but with you. By day, he tracks down deviants. By night, he helps you build the arguments meant to defend them.
The rhythm is almost identical to what you shared before. With one crucial difference: now, your cause is the same. Convincing the authorities that androids are sentient beings in their own right.
And yet, for reasons you cannot grasp, Connor continues to convince himself that he is nothing more than a machine, devoid of emotion. That his actions serve a mission, orders, never instinct, never values of his own.
Having Connor at your side goes far beyond having a simple ally. Your relationship no longer revolves solely around work. It becomes more intimate, deeper, more intense.
Through looks, through words, through gestures, and through silence.
A powerful chemistry has settled between you, constant, undeniable. It hangs in the air, presses in, and sometimes makes you lose your sanity.
One question lingers: will he ever realize it? Admit that he is no longer fully in control of his program? That emotions and a form of free will have taken deep root within him, if only because of the double life he leads? From his perspective, he seems incapable of seeing it that way.
But more than anything, you hope that one day, he will acknowledge his feelings.
You are no longer trying to push him to deviate. Deep down, you know the damage is already done. Now, it is up to him to accept who he truly is. But to be the deviant hunter, you must not be one yourself.
And for now, the only ones he still manages to convince are Cyberlife, and himself.
⸻
— It’s not working. Something is slipping through the cracks.
It’s been hours now that a single case has completely stalled you. Nothing to defend, no evidence to present to a judge, nothing that could constitute a mitigating circumstance. Total void.
The nights are too short, always just a little shorter. You survive on caffeine and energy drinks, despite Connor’s constant comments about your terrible dietary habits. Though he tries to take over so you can rest, you refuse to let go of anything, every file is too important to be left aside. Connor insists, calmly but firmly.
— You won’t get anywhere if you don’t take care of yourself. Let me take over.
In the quiet of your living room, you pace back and forth under the soft glow of the floor lamps. The ceiling spotlights have always bothered you, too harsh for your senses.
— No, we absolutely have to find something. The judge gave me only 48 hours.
— Hey.
Connor places his hands on your shoulders, stopping your agitation, coaxing you to slow down. The tension in your muscles eases under his touch, you hadn’t even realized how tight your shoulders had grown, nearly merging with your neck.
— You need to sleep. You’ve been on this file for too long, your mind isn’t clear anymore. Rest, then come back to it with a new perspective. Let me handle this.
Gradually, his calm seeps into you. His touch reassures you, relaxes you, as if you can finally breathe. Reluctantly, you nod and slowly make your way to your bedroom. But before stepping away, you pause and turn back toward him.
— If you find someth-
— I’ll let you know. I promise.
A tender smile forms on his lips, and yours follows in response. You disappear into your bedroom. Once your head hits the pillow, sleep overtakes you, deep and necessary, as if your body has finally surrendered.
About two hours later, a dull noise from the kitchen wakes you. Groggy, you rise to investigate. Connor is crouched on the floor, gathering the shards of a broken ceramic bowl.
— I’m sorry… Your cat wouldn’t stop meowing, the bowl was empty… I tried to refill it, and it slipped from my hands, he murmurs, embarrassed.
A tired laugh escapes you. You crouch beside him to help.
— It’s just a bowl.
You watch Connor at work. He picks up every fragment with precision, scanning, analyzing, ensuring no trace remains. His sleeves are carefully rolled up, his jacket and tie absent, his hair slightly messy, even he seems to have felt the strain of this file.
When he notices your gaze, he meets it, but you look away, embarrassed, continuing to gather the pieces in silence.
— Did you manage to rest?
You nod. Those few hours of sleep helped, even if briefly.
— Did you find anything?
— No… he breathes out. We’re at an impasse.
— What am I supposed to tell the judge?
— You should drop this file and focus on the others. Maybe they’ll be more relevant.
You toss the shards in the trash, a heavy sigh escaping.
— That’s not how this works, Connor.
— We still have a little over 24 hours. We can do it.
You appreciate his optimism, but you know this case is lost. You press your hands against your face, overwhelmed by fatigue and despair. Connor advances slowly, sees your exhaustion, feels it.
Gently, he takes your wrists and moves your hands aside, revealing your face, worn down by anxiety and frustration. Then, with a deliberate, almost surprising slowness, he pulls you against him. Your head rests on his chest, your arms wrap around his waist, and his arms settle on your shoulders, letting your forehead rest lightly against him. One hand flat on the back of your skull, his chin resting atop your head.
In that deep silence, you remain still. Your heartbeat and the pulse of his thirium pump echo together, almost like a secret language. You close your eyes for a moment, savoring the comfort, before slowly detaching, exhaling almost to yourself.
— You’re going to tell me it’s your relationship program that lets you do this.
Connor doesn’t break eye contact. His LED spins briefly, then stabilizes.
— Maybe.
— Please, Connor…
Your tone is desperate, almost fatalistic. No matter what you say or do, he continues to deny the obvious. A dull ache pierces your heart, a mixture of fatigue, worry, and helplessness.
— Honestly… I’m not sure about anything anymore.
You blink several times, unsure of what it truly means. Connor catches the confusion in your eyes, in the tension of your features. He continues.
— I can’t afford to fail. Otherwise, Cyberlife will destroy me.
— What do you mean by “fail”?
He closes his eyes for a brief second, then looks back at you.
— If they detect the slightest error, the smallest sign of deviance, it’s over.
Your confusion slowly gives way to a deep, gnawing unease. You have always known Connor was a prototype, unique. That there was no other model like him. And you also know something else, something far more terrifying still: his destruction would be final. Irreversible.
Instinctively, you take a step back. As if to put distance between him and yourself. As if to smother the temptation before it can swallow you whole. To protect him. To protect him from you, perhaps, but above all, from Cyberlife. To protect him from a potential destruction.
With a simple nod, you offer him a heavy look, with meaning, a silent understanding he likely doesn’t yet have the words —or the parameters— to articulate. Then you turn away without another word and head back toward the living room, hoping that this case will be enough to chase your demons away.
Or like, machine connor transitioning into deviant connor
I cannot do his playthrough tho, i love hank 💀
definitely planning to write more machine!connor stuff in the future ;)
i can understand, hank is so sweet and being mean to him is difficult. but the more you play, the more you want to discover other paths. they all are interesting to watch (and some of them very painful and traumatizing ngl)
“Don’t get all morally superior with me.” - From Machine Connor to Markus
“But I am morally superior to you,” Markus retorts irritably. “Normally I’d never say that. But the fact that you are still caged by your programming means that, by definition, you have no morals. You refuse to be anything more than a machine following orders. The fact that I have morals at all makes me morally superior to you because any morals is better than none at all!” Markus’s voice has bite to it as he sets his eyebrows into a hard expression and glares at Connor.
